


All but one of his fires out

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Competition, Eventual Character Death, Eventual sibling incest, Guilt, Illustrated, Losgar, M/M, Sibling Rivalry, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:51:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5651500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inextricable the Ambarussar may be, but that doesn’t mean they don’t fight the fact every step of the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The youngest sons of Feanor and Nerdanel are mirrors; are antipodes.

_They are so alike_ , is the first thing people always say, gazing down at the two shining heads. There are almost always benevolent smiles. 

 _Yes_ , their family agrees. _They are inseparable_.

 _How they hate each other_ , is the thing people always whisper, once they've known the twins a bit longer.

 _Yes_ , their family says. _So it goes._

 

* * *

 

Telufinwë stood only as high as Nerdanel’s hip the first time she caught him with his older brother’s knife.

“Telvo!” Nerdanel dropped the vase she’d been carrying, heedless of the crash, and crossed the room so fast her feet hardly touched the floor. Then she was wrenching the blade from his small hand and holding his wrist tightly as he tried to snatch it back from her. “What are you doing? You could have hurt yourself! You never, never touch sharp things, not without – ”

“I wasn’t going to hurt myself!” Telufinwë protested, trying to twist out of her grip, but Nerdanel pulled him close, laying the knife on the table.

“Telvo. What were you doing with Maitimo’s knife?”

Telufinwë jutted out his chin, as sharp and stubborn as his father’s, and tossed his head so that his thin red braid flopped over his shoulder. “I wanted to cut my hair.”

Nerdanel paused. “You what?”

“I wanted to cut my hair off,” said Telufinwë, slowly, so that she could understand every word.

Nerdanel cupped his chin in her hand and looked into his small, serious face. “Why did you want to cut your hair off, sweet?”

Telufinwë squirmed. “Yesterday…”

“What happened yesterday?”

Telufinwë’s cheeks flushed and his grey eyes flashed in sudden outrage. “Turukáno called me Pityo!”

"Ah." Nerdanel stroked his cheek, understanding dawning. “Yes, I can see how that would be frustrating. Remember when that visiting courtier confused Makalaurë and Atarinkë and how angry they got? But remember, Turukáno has not spent as much time around you both as the rest of us, he could be forgiven for mistaking you for your brother…”

“I don’t _want_ to be mistaken for him!” Furious, Telufinwë wrenched away from her, and snatched the knife from the table before Nerdanel could stop him. He held his braid away from his head, pulling it taut, and sawed frantically at it for a minute, biting his lip against the pain of his scalp.

“Telufinwë!” Nerdanel grabbed for him again, but it was too late. With a cry of triumph, Telufinwë cut through the last strands of his hair, and dropped the knife to the ground, casting the thin, bright locks after it and scuffing at them scornfully with his toe.

“There,” he said in satisfaction, shaking his head so his ragged hair just brushed his shoulders. “Now I don’t look like _him_.”

 

* * *

They grow older, and as striking in looks as any in their family; more so, for the fact that their beauty is doubled. The smiles cast on the two of them by strangers are as benevolent as ever, but more rare.

They never walk out together if they can help it.

 _Stop following me_ , one hisses to the other.

 _Why would I follow you?_  His twin shoots back.  _We just happen to be going the same direction._

 _Then hang back ten paces._   _Let me breathe_.

So it goes.

* * *

 

 

 

Pityafinwë dug through the trunk at the end of his bed, his temper growing along with the pile of discarded items beside him. “Ambarussa!” he bellowed finally. “Where in bloody Aman are my armguards?”

“Do lower your voice,” drawled his twin from the doorway, causing Pityafinwë to jump and look up. “You have the least harmonious shout, I swear.”

“If you want harmonious, get Makalaurë to yell at you,” said Pityafinwë, slamming shut the trunk and stalking over to his brother. “You stole them again, didn’t you?”

Telufinwë examined his nails and didn't answer the question. “Dear child, I don’t know why you need them. They are for _archers._ ”

Pityafinwë chewed his lip, trying to keep himself from grabbing his brother by the collar. _Dear child_ … “I am an archer, you prick.”

Telufinwë smirked at him. “Only in the loosest sense of the word.”

“I don’t have time for you to be smug at me,” snapped Pityafinwë. “Tyelko is taking me to hunt with Lord Oromë, and I need my gear to be in – ”

“Wait, what?” Telufinwë’s smug composure slipped. “Tyelko is taking you on the Hunt? He never said anything to me!”

It was Pityafinwë’s turn to smirk. “I guess you missed it while you were on that trip with Moryo. Yes, we discussed it a while ago, and he agreed that I was ready to be initiated.”

“ _What?_ You, and not me? You who nearly shot your own horse when the light was low? You who walk with the tread of a thousand wild boars? You to be initiated before me - The very nerve!” Telufinwë whirled in the doorway, and Pityafinwë chased after him.

“Had she not shied from the horn call, she would not have been anywhere near my arrow, and who are you calling heavy-footed, fatty? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to talk to Tyelkormo,” said Telufinwë shortly. “I am coming with you.”

“No, you’re not!" Frustration surged, and Pityafinwë reached out to snag his brother's collar, but Telufinwë eluded him, still walking fast. "I always have to share things with you, let this be mine.”

“Like it or not, Pityo, I am a hunter too.”

“Then be a hunter by _yourself_.”

It was the same argument, the same frustration, the same impatience that threw them apart, that made them yell and tear at each other and curse the ill-fortune that made all assume they were _the same._ The same fight they’d been throwing themselves against since they were small, the same fight their family despaired of ever resolving.

_I am nothing like you!_

_Good._

But it was no use, Pityafinwë thought, close on his brother’s heels, longing to strike the back of that haughty head. No matter how they fought it, always were they thrown together.

_Damn everything._

-

Tyelkormo had tried to mediate and placate, but while he could soothe a wounded animal with ease, quarreling little brothers had him tearing at his hair in frustration. Finally he growled that they’d just have to work it out themselves because he was sick of it, and if either was interested in joining him, he’d be leaving at the first Mingling with whomever showed up.

By the time it came for bed, both twins were furious and not speaking to each other.

“You ruin everything,” whispered Pityafinwë, dropping into his bed. He had been looking forward to time alone with his older brother, learning the rites of the Hunt, being initiated into its traditions. It would have been exciting, an adventure, something new – And now Telufinwë would be there too, because he could never be rid of his brother. “Everything.”

Telufinwë’s voice was snide. “If I ruin everything then I guess then we have _something_ in common.”

Pityafinwë dug his fingers into his pillow, resisting the urge to throw it into his brother’s face. Instead he curled up on his side, twisting the blankets between his fingers, and felt himself relax as a body pressed against his back, and a familiar arm went around his waist.

“You are so selfish and childish.” Pityafinwë could feel Telufinwë’s breath on the back of his neck as Telufinwë pushed aside his hair and pressed his face to Pityafinwë’s skin.

“That’s the hammer calling the anvil inflexible if I ever heard it. Maybe you just bring out the worst in me.” He closed his eyes, settling back against his brother’s chest. 

Telufinwë's fingers ran over his throat to his jaw. “I hate you.” Telufinwë’s voice was a murmur as his finger pressed against Pityafinwë’s lips, and Pityafinwë let it slip into his mouth for a second before biting down.

“I hate you, too.”

They fell asleep on the same breath, the same heartbeat, curled into each other’s arms.

As they did every night.

* * *

Their family does not question why the twins' room contains two beds while only one gets used. Their family does not try to understand; their family knows enough.

_They hate each other._

_They are inseparable._

_So it has always been._

So it goes.

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A clash between their father and uncle resonates with the Ambarussar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Knife play, threats, sibling incest.

_Then Fingolfin bowed before Finwë, and without word or glance at F _ë_ anor he went from the chamber. _

_But F _ë_ anor followed him, and at the door of the king's house he stayed him. The point of his bright sword he set against Fingolfin's breast. _

_"See, half-brother!" he said. "This is sharper than thy tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of a would-be master of thralls."_

* * *

 

The sons of Fëanáro do not move throughout, and only the glitter of their pale eyes betrays any movement in the torchlight. They watch, but do not speak. By the next day, there are rumors that they knew all along what their father planned.  _How could they not? Whom does he trust but his sons? They know all of his great plans and schemes._

But that night, they say nothing, betray nothing. Their father wheels and leaves, and as murmurs swell, Maitimo orders them home tersely. They go in silence, straight-backed and tall, and none would know if their minds whirl with as much confusion and fear as any watching. 

Something too big, too vast to yet quite comprehend, has been set in motion. 

The twins are silent. They trail at their brothers' heels, side by side, for once uncomplaining of their proximity.

Something has changed; something that cannot be put back to where it was before.

* * *

  

They stayed silent until they reached their room.

Pityafinwë unfastened the clasp of his cloak, breathing hard, color in his cheeks. Telufinwë was more controlled, his breath even and his face impassive, but his hands were shaking slightly with excitement as he tugged off his boots and hung his cloak on the hook by the door.

“Did you know that was going to happen?” Pityafinwë burst out, turning to his brother. “Did you know that father – did you suspect that Nolofinwë – ”

“No,” said Telufinwë. “Keep your voice down.”

“Keep my voice down?” Pityafinwë smacked his forehead in frustration. “Do you fear someone will overhear me? Do you think there is anyone in this house – in this city – who does not already know?”

“You sound like a hysterical child. _Keep your voice down._ ”

Pityafinwë ignored him, though usually 'hysterical child' would have been enough to have him snarling in fury. “I cannot believe Father actually did that. What do you think will happen now?"

"I can believe it. And I am sure I don't know."

"Do you think grandfather will step in?"

Telufinwë snorted but did not say anything, and Pityafinwë continued to pace.

"Did you see how sharp that blade was? I mean, I knew he was angry, but I did not suspect he would go so far." He drew up, thinking. "Not that I can blame him. When you think about it... It makes sense, doesn’t it?” He stared out the window. “It makes...sense.”

“It makes sense for him to want to put a sword to his own brother’s throat?” Telufinwë’s voice was very quiet, but Pityafinwë didn’t turn back to him.

Instead he stared out the window a moment before yanking the curtains closed without turning around. “I can understand it.” He bent down to light a candle on the windowsill and the room filled with warm, flickering light.

“So can I.”

“Can you?” Pityafinwë did turn then, and he saw his twin leaning one hip against the bureau. He had shed his cloak and fine tunic, and was stripped down to his undershirt and breeches, flipping a hunting knife with studied carelessness in his palm.

“Certainly I can understand,” said Telufinwë slowly, as if in deep meditation, his eyes on the shivering steel in his hand. “The desire to press a blade to the throat of one who has long chafed at you…long usurped you…long dogged your steps where you wished him not.”

Pityafinwë made an involuntary movement, and Telufinwë looked at him, his eyes glittering.

“I can see the desire to free oneself of an unwanted shadow.”

“Telv – ”

“I can see the desire to just _get rid of it_.” And swift as breathing, swift as he was in the hunt, swift as his hands were to slit the throat of a wounded animal, Telufinwë was upon Pityafinwë, cold steel flashing. Pityafinwë reached out instinctively for his twin's arms, but Telufinwë evaded him, driving him back until Pityafinwë’s legs hit the side of the bed and he tumbled back on it. Telufinwë followed him down inexorably, knees pressing tight to his hips, one hand catching Pityafinwë’s wrist and pinning it, brutally hard, above his head.

The light in his eyes was fey, familiar - _Try but once more to usurp my place! -_  and Pityafinwë, searching those silver eyes, could not find any hint of play in them, only calculating malice. Not for the first time, he felt afraid of his brother. 

Not for the first time, the fear turned to fury. 

“You wish to rid yourself of me?” Pityafinwë tried to rise up, straining at the hand pinning him to the mattress, but before he could move much, there was a knife at his throat. He knew how finely honed his brother kept it, had seen him ply it against flesh and skins on countless hunts. He could feel it cold and sharp against his skin as he swallowed, and he locked his eyes on his twin, refusing to let fear show in his eyes. “You think you have the guts to do it? Even our father did not go through with it,” he breathed, not moving anymore, but not backing down, either. “He threatened, but did not break the skin.”

“You don’t think so?” Telufinwë bore down harder, his weight heavy across Pityafinwë’s thighs and his fingers painful on Pityafinwë's wrist, but the knife didn’t move, fixed right at the pulse point of his throat. Telufinwë had a hunter's instincts for where blood ran, and how to flirt with its boundaries. “I saw the blood,” he whispered, bringing his head so close that Pityafinwë could feel his brother’s breath on his lips. “The blood, pricked from Nolofinwë’s throat. I could smell it.”

_Had it been me, I would have tasted it._

Pityafinwë could not tell which of their minds the thought had come from.

He still had one arm free, and with it he reached up and grabbed ahold of Telufinwë’s shoulder-length hair, knotting his fingers into it. His brother hissed, and Pityafinwë spat at him. “You wish for blood?” he demanded, made bold by fear and anger. “Take it. Are you afraid? _Take it._ ” He surged up, pressing forward against the blade, and Telufinwë, not expecting this, twitched in shock and jerked his hand away. The tip of the knife still nicked Pityafinwë’s throat, and he could feel the sting and a sudden wet heat.

Blood trickled slowly down his throat to his collarbones, staining the white of his shirt.

“Ambarussa,” breathed Telufinwë, in awe, or horror.

“You wish to shed the blood of your shadow, and that is a fool’s errand. Everyone knows that you kill a shadow,” Pityafinwë told him, pleasantly, “by turning light upon it.” And he reached over the side of the bed and pinched out the candle.

In the sudden darkness, neither could tell who moved first, only that there, in the bleeding dark, their lips met.  

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sea brings them close; the sea sunders them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: First Kinslaying, PTSD, angst, sexual content; if there is a way to be even less healthy at twincest than just committing it, these two will do it. 
> 
> This chapter contains another illustration by my girl Tanya. This one gutted me.

_Their white ships with their white sails the Teleri would neither give nor sell, for they prized them dearly, nor did they hope ever again to make others so fair and swift. But when the host of Feanor came to the Haven of the Swans they attempted to seize by force the white fleets that lay anchored there, and the Teleri resisted them. Weapons were drawn and a bitter fight was fought upon the great arch of the Haven's gate, and upon the lamplit quays and piers..._

 

* * *

 

When inevitable steel was drawn, they did not fight side by side; Pityafinwë found Tyelkormo's side and Telufinwë fought at Carnistir's. Those caught between them would flee one sharp face framed by blazing hair only to come up against its mirror, each wielding death as if they knew it well.

They have learned, by this time, to wear the masks their family crafts with words and deeds and force of will. 

_A son of Fëanáro betrays no doubt, no fear, no grief._

Not on the outside. 

_Do not question. Do not think. Fight._

When Telufinwë sank his sword to the hilt in the breast of a dark-haired fisherman, across the fray Pityafinwë did the same to a rawboned woman wielding a trident who cursed him with her last breath.

Each twin raised his head, and their eyes met across the slaughter, across the bloody quay. In that moment they were transformed; in that moment they knew.

Nothing would ever be the same.

They set sail within the hour, and the waves roared their devastation.

 

* * *

 

On the ships, the sons of Fëanáro wrapped their wounds and tried to forget and prepared for the unknown.

On the ships, Telufinwë, who had always weighed his words and thoughts before he spoke them, sharpened his sword and washed the blood from his clothes and turned his face to the East and resolved to be a warrior. 

_It is just a new sort of hunt._

On the ships, Pityafinwë, who had always been bold and loud and laughing, shrank. He would not touch his weapons, and left the gore caking his clothes. Eventually they had to pull his clothes from him to wash them, and in the end threw them overboard as too filthy to save. He turned his face from the shine of Telufinwë's blade when he took it out to polish, and refused to join in speculation of what awaited them on the far side of the sea.

_What do you fear awaits us?_

They were all ill at first, but ocean sickness passed quickly as they adjusted to the roll of the waves. But even after they had long since stopped heaving over the side, Telufinwë would often find his brother pressed to the railing, face turned towards Aman, his eyes closed.

"If you eat something, you will feel better," he said impatiently in passing. Indeed, he was hungrier than he had ever been, the salt in the air making him constantly ravenous.

But when he saw the tears streaming from beneath Pityafinwë's closed lids, he knew that the illness that beset his brother went beyond the nausea of unsettled seas. The salt that made Telufinwë wolf his food and crave more seemed instead to be pouring from Pityafinwë in rivers, until it seemed to Telufinwë that whatever his brother ate must taste of brine.

“You cry as much as Tyelpe does, but at least he is barely more than a child. He has an excuse,” said Telufinwë, hoping to spur him to anger, but Pityafinwë just bowed his head and didn’t answer. Telufinwe clicked his tongue and stalked away, but ordered a deckhand to keep an eye on his brother and make sure his limp form didn't slip from the deck as the waves grew taller and the wind blew fiercer and still Pityafinwë pressed himself to the railing.

At night, they shared a berth, as the thought of not sharing a bed was too alien even for this new, transient world. And when Telufinwë wrapped his arms around his brother’s waist, Pityafinwë finally reacted with something other than numb grief, turning in his arms and shoving him back against the hard walls of the dark hold.

Telufinwë ran his fingers over Pityafinwë's torso, and with each touch he could feel his brother's ribs, the fragility of his skin, the hollowness of his stomach. But Pityafinwë grabbed hold of him with hands that were strong despite his frailty and kissed him with the savage hunger of the starving. Telufinwë let himself be pinned, let his clothes be torn from him, and sank his teeth into Pityafinwë's lip so they could both taste the richness of his blood.

If their brothers, who shared the space, heard their pants for breath and the intimations of flesh, they feigned deafness. They had bigger sins to worry about just then.

_What is the denial of just one more truth? Nothing, in the scale of things._

After, Telufinwë would fall asleep against Pityafinwë’s narrow chest, their bodies damp and sticky with sweat and sex and salt air. He finished each day exhausted and slept like the dead, and when he woke again, Pityafinwë would still be staring into space, his fingers tangled in Telufinwë’s hair.

“Did you sleep?” Telufinwë would ask, his voice raspy.

Pityafinwë wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t respond at all unless Telufinwë rolled over on top of him, straddling his waist, and worked sounds from him with lips and hands and tongue.

“You are going to have to stop sulking at some point,” he said one morning, rolling out of their narrow berth and fumbling his clothes back on, wincing a little at the ache as he bent down for his boots.  “Father says you’re being petulant, and I agree. You _are_ being petulant, and soon I’m going to stop having any patience for you at all.”

“You’ll get over it,” he said, after another night of dreamless sleep while his brother lay corpse-still and unblinking beside him. “The rest of us have.”

“ _Stop crying_ ,” he whispered in the darkness, hating his brother more than anything, and when Pityafinwë tried to turn away, Telufinwë slapped him, and then kissed him, and when Pityafinwë gasped, “I wish I were dead,” the first sentence he had spoken in weeks, Telufinwë replied viciously, “So do I.”

“You weren’t the only one there,” he hissed later, face pressed to the blankets as Pityafinwë bent over his back. “You weren’t the only one who shed blood. You think we don’t all have memories?”

Pityafinwë’s hand tightened in his hair, but he didn’t say anything, and Telufinwë felt such rage for his continued silence that he cursed him all the way through, slamming his hips back against Pityafinwë’s until they finished together, and Pityafinwë slumped forward against his back, his tears hot against Telufinwë’s skin.

“It’s going to change,” Telufinwë whispered, his face bruised from how hard it had been pressed to the berth, his voice cracked and dry from all the talking he was doing for the both of them. “It’ll end, eventually.”

 

* * *

 

Pityafinwë spoke just once more before they made land. Their ship was sailing through the Firth of Drengist, and Telufinwë jumped and stared, startled by the sound of his brother’s voice that had been missing for so long.

“I should have stayed behind.” Pityafinwë was leaning against the rails, gaze fixed on the alien hills. The shadows of his eye sockets were so deep and dark that they looked like soot smeared below his pale eyes. “You would have preferred that, wouldn’t you?”

“Shut up, Pityo,” said Telufinwë automatically.

But Pityafinwë wasn’t paying attention. “You could earn your place at father’s side alone. You could thrive. No more shadow,” he murmured. “We would both be free.”

Telufinwë didn’t bother answering, as he settled against the rails at his brother’s side. Their shoulders pressed against each other, Telufinwe's strong and hale; Pityafinwe's thin and sharp. They both knew that for them, the notion of freedom was folly; they would never be free of each other.

That night, that last night, Pityafinwë’s tongue tasted like salt and ash, and his fingers tore broken promises into Telufinwë’s skin.

But later, on the blazing docks, Telufinwë learned what freedom felt like.

 

* * *

  

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If living with his twin was unbearable, living without him was even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Anguish, angst, self-harm, violence against [bro]others, incest.

In the smoldering embers of the destroyed ships, the Ambarussa learns the language of freedom, until his throat tears with it.

_Hold him back, you three._

_Don't let him go near -_

_Let them cover it, first._

_Makalaurë, don't let go of his arms!_

_I can't take it, I can't take it, he won't stop, and my ears -_

 

The Ambarussa stops screaming, eventually. Once the embers are cold, and the waves wash clear of ash. Once his father has given up trying to approach him; once his brothers have tied him to the center-pole of a tent, with knotted leather and whispered apologies. Once he has given up trying to chew through his restraints and his voice fades to a bloody whisper, he stops. The silence echoes out over the encampment, and people raise their heads, looks of exhausted relief on their faces.

_He has stopped his howling._

_That, or died._

_Hush. If milord hears you..._

The Ambarussa slumps against his bonds and closes his eyes against the figures slipping quietly into the tent to untie his hands and stroke his brow and press wet cloths to his cracked lips.

Freedom is pain, and pain binds his tongue evermore.

 

* * *

 

 

The Ambarussa did not speak.

There were new names now in the new land; names that his brothers took, even though they still lapsed into Quenya amongst themselves. The Ambarussa did not care what name they gave him. If they were lucky, he ignored them when they spoke to him. If they were unlucky, they paid for it. 

“Amr – ” Maglor began at one point, reaching out for his hand, and the Ambarussa broke his finger.

_In that hand, a torch._

Freedom was a weight missing from his shoulders and chest, a weight missing from his side each night as he slept; independence, a sentence. Sleeping alone in a bed was too alien, so he dug himself a shallow trough in the bare ground and slotted himself into it, curling up and pressing his back to the hard hummock of earth. 

Each night he painstakingly tore open the wounds in his shoulders, the last marks his brother had given him, and sowed them with ash to keep them raw. In the beginning he used a knife to keep them fresh, but with time, as his nails grew and sharpened, he had no need for a blade. He closed his eyes and remembered pressing a knife to his brother’s throat, and feeling the heat pool in his groin. He dreamt of riding his brother’s hips and woke with the blankets ruined, his hands wrapped around his own throat. He remembered the knife shearing through his long hair as a child, and he fingered the filthy red locks and never cut them again. His hair grew wild, waist-length and matted, covering his eyes. He remembering his brother clinging to him, his brother’s tears, his brother’s lips, his brother pressing so deep into them that it didn’t matter that they were two instead of one – and he tore his shoulders open over and over, mapping the shadows of his brother’s hands.

“Amr – ” Maedhros tried, and held his tongue as the Ambarussa turned on him, eyes glittering from their mask of ash, from behind that fall of dirty hair.

_No torch in your hand, but no words on your lips, either._

When Maedhros departed, and then did not return, the Ambarussa felt nothing much; certainly no more than he had felt when their father fought and fell and burned. _Fire is the end we all deserve._ He knew Maglor fought almost daily to control their brothers, and he watched them rage at each other in their fear and confusion, aimless and desperate without a leader they had faith in, and he wandered around the camp at night, scuffing out campfires.

He no longer ate his meat cooked.

“Telvo,” Celegorm ventured, and the Ambarussa didn’t answer. But when Celegorm gestured towards the woods, offering the hunt, the Ambarussa followed. If Celegorm found it odd that he used only his hands to kill, turning up his nose at bow and spear, he did not say so.

The Ambarussa crouched over his kill, for a moment forgetting all but the familiarity of blood and pine and the scent of the hunt, closing his eyes to breathe in the smell of hot entrails and sighing wind. But then Celegorm tried to say something to him, something with the cadence of regret, and the Ambarussa left, his kill bleeding out on the pine needles, and did not return for many long cycles of the new moon.

_Regret does not bring back that which has been snuffed out, and I should know._

“Ambarussa,” said Caranthir, much later, in his low, rough voice, and the Ambarussa did not pull away or close his eyes.

“Ambarussa?” Caranthir repeated, and the Ambarussa let himself be touched. Caranthir demanded no more of him. It was no real change, as Caranthir had never cared much for small talk anyway, and the Ambarussa started to take his meals in Caranthir’s tent. He came and left like a ghost, and Caranthir never asked where he went, or when he’d return. But when he found the Ambarussa tearing at his shoulders one night, he pulled his hands away and held the bloody fingers gently and washed his wounds with fresh water and herbs, and the Ambarussa closed his eyes as tears cut tracks in the ash.

* * *

 

Left alone at last, the wounds closed and turned into white scars, and he would run his hands over them, remembering. And when he remembered too much, he would vanish to the woods, or later, to the only bed he could stand to sleep in.

Caranthir never said anything but his name, their name, as the Ambarussa crouched over him, naked, and Caranthir brushed the mats of hair from his eyes and held his hips carefully, so carefully, and kissed his throat but never his scars, and for that, the Ambarussa was grateful.

Whenever he closed his eyes, even wrapped in Caranthir’s long arms, the flames leapt, and he damned his brother for defeating him one last time before he left. The flames danced behind his eyes, a mockery of the one long since extinguished.

_You win, brother – this is something at last we cannot share, and you have left me alone with it._

_You kill a shadow by turning the light upon it, but they don’t tell you how much being shadowless weighs._

_So it goes._

And so it went, on and on - until at last, it went out.

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This is a collaboration done with the incomparable [Tanya](http://ten-thousand-leaves.tumblr.com/), who illustrated the story as I wrote it, and unto each other we caused much pain. It began with thinking about soulmate twin tropes, and how they are always depicted as each other’s best friends, and considering how interesting it would be if they were worst enemies instead…
> 
> 1\. I know the names are a source of contention, so for my own internal consistency in this story I have gone with what I have used in the past (and I promise I know the arguments for both!):
> 
> Pityafinwë/Pityo = Amras/the youngest Fëanorion/twin who dies at Losgar.  
> Telufinwë/Telvo = Amrod/the elder twin/the one who survives.
> 
> They both call each other Ambarussa, and the nickname is more or less interchangeable even within their family, but Pityo’s mothername is technically Umbarto/Ambarto.
> 
> 2\. Title comes from Dylan Thomas’ _A Child’s Christmas in Wales_.


End file.
